Okay, kids, a couple of things first. I thought that this chapter would be a breeze. I mean, hey, I had it like 75% done because I wrote it at the same time as chapter 10. (I was on a boring business-trip-type-thing, so I had lots of time.) Anyway, I'm typing it up and suddenly I'm like, OH-MY-GOD, this chapter SUCKS!!!! So, Jesus-F-Christ, I swear I spent so much DAMN time rewriting this one, and I'm feeling pretty insecure about the whole thing. (Yes, that was a thinly veiled plea for feedback.) But, seriously, this one was hard to give birth to, and I'm hoping you like it. (And whoever can figure out what short story this chapter is based on, I'll dedicate the next chapter to you. Hint, he's Irish, and it's the ending that is mostly based on the short story.) Second, the next chapter -- well, it might be several chapters, because I haven't sketched it out yet, is going to be hard, because there's lots of plot to figure out (Jeez, I hate plot) and, well, because it's the end of this story cycle, so I gotta make it good, right? I'm thinking of doing it in short sections so that people don't hunt me down and kill me for making them wait too long, but it's gonna be tough going, either way. Anyway, I hope you're patient. Finally, since the end is near (for this CYCLE, not this SERIES), your feedback would be much appreciated, because, to be honest, I really don't know yet how it's going to end. So, here's your chance to influence (or threaten) me. The address is denis141@hotmail.com
DEDICATION: This chapter is for Aaron, a lovely chap who like my story (so far, at least, assuming he isn't lying to me), and, even more importantly, who writes me opinionated, intelligent, and highly amusing feedback emails, for which I am deeply indebted to him. Thanks Aaron; love and stuff to you (and to Mel, too, although more to you).
DISCLAIMER: I don't know any member NSYNC, and this story, well, I made the whole damn thing up. Yeah, and one more thing, this story has sex in it (although not as much as some would like), so, if that's not your thing, or if you ain't old enough, you should stop reading now.
ALONE/TOGETHER
CHAPTER 11: Waiting.
They were together in silence like an old married couple wary of life, beyond the pitfalls of passions, beyond the brutal mockery of hope and the phantoms of disillusion: beyond love.
-- Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love in the Time of Cholera.
JC had arrived here two months ago and rented a small two-room apartment in the Barri G?tic, the oldest section of Barcelona. From its single large window, JC could see Le Catedral de Barcelona, a 14th century gothic cathedral, and the Casa del Dega, one of the three medieval palaces that comprise the cathedral complex. It was only a short walk from his apartment to Mercat de la Boqueria, the central market just off the Rambles where every night he bought a small loaf of bread, a bottle of red wine, some cheese or olives, a ripe fig, and sometimes a slice or two of Serrano ham.
JC lived next door to a woman named Isabella Cavaziel. She never spoke to JC, and always passed him in the narrow hallway without looking up. She wore her gray hair in a tight bun, which was always covered with a black scarf when she went out. Every morning, when the sun would rise and his bedroom would begin to fill with light, JC would go to the window and watch her walk across the Pla de la Seu, always dressed in black, and always looking like a shadow sliding across the cathedral square.
He didn't know where she went, but he always wondered.
JC shivered as he stood at the window and watched Isabella disappear around the corner of the Casa de l'Ardiaca, the Archdeacon's house. It was the sixth of March, but there was still no sign of spring. Turning away from the window, JC brushed his teeth, using a small basin of water he kept in his room for just this purpose, and then quickly dressed, paying little attention to what he pulled on, because he was mostly concerned with being warm. Glancing at the clock on the floor next to his small bed, JC knew he needed to hurry to avoid being late for class.
Class had now been over for nearly two hours. JC was studying drawing at the Miro foundation, and his professor was a short, tyrannical man that enjoyed berating JC for his near constant tardiness. The professor's name was Miguel Garcia Lorca; and, in a strange way, JC enjoyed the fact that Professor Lorca never hesitated to yell at him, even for very small things, like staring out the window, or dropping a pencil. The rebukes -- even the loud and red-faced ones -- were reassuring to JC, even though he was not exactly sure why. Perhaps because being yelled at made him feel normal again, like he was no different than anyone else in the room.
JC was sitting outside at one of the dozen or so tables set up on the sidewalk next to the cafe, El Tragaluz, which he'd been told meant "light-swallower" in Catalan. As he did nearly every day, JC was enjoying a glass of sherry and a small plate of olives. The olives were dark black and puckered, and they'd been drizzled with balsamic vinegar. Eating them slowly, one every five minutes or so, had made JC's fingers sticky, so that there were now light brown fingerprints on the pages of the book he was reading, Love in the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
He'd discovered this place, after first arriving in Barcelona, because the American Express office was across the street, and it was there that JC went to pick up his mail. He had told Justin, and a few other people, that if they needed to reach him, they could do so by contacting American Express, which would then forward mail and telephone messages to him wherever he eventually ended up. JC had at first checked for mail every four days or so, and then every week, and then hardly at all. He assumed that no one he'd once known had anything important left to say to him.
JC looked up from his book, unable to concentrate on what he was reading. He'd just read the same sentence three times, and still was not sure what it said. A green car drove by, and its tires made a thub-thub-thub sound on the cobble-stoned street. JC felt tired, and thought about going back to the apartment and taking a nap, but he knew the walk to the subway station would revive him enough that he'd just end up going out again. Settling deeper into his chair, JC's eyes began to close, and his head nodded slightly forward. He could feel the lingering taste of sherry on his tongue, and the feel of the book closed on his finger, its spine digging into his thigh as he held it; and he could hear the sound of a Vespa nearby, revving its small engine into a high-pitched whine that then started to recede; and then a woman's voice, gentle but insistent, and quite close.
"Senor Chasez, Senor Chasez."
JC blinked his eyes open and looked up. A young woman in a navy blue jacket and matching skirt hovered over him, smiling at him, standing right in front of his chair. JC wondered how long she'd been standing there trying to get his attention.
"Yes," he said, closing his book and setting it on the metal table next to his sherry glass and the plate of olives.
"You are Senor Chasez," the woman said. "That is correct, yes?"
"Yes," JC nodded. "I'm Joshua Chasez. Why?"
The young woman looked relieved, and nodded several times before beginning to speak quite rapidly.
"I am from the American Express office, there across the street. I do not mean to disturb you, sir. I am very sorry about that. But I recognize you sitting here from when you were in the office many times before, and seeing you I thought I must come and tell you about the very many messages you receive during the last weeks, telephone messages from a Senor Timberlake. I do not mean to disturb you, but these messages say it is an urgent matter, and you must call him right away, this Senor Timberlake."
JC blushed, almost as if he'd been caught telling a lie.
"Senor Timberlake?"
"Yes, sir," the young woman said. "We have received his messages every day for the last two weeks. The messages all say please to call him."
"Did ... uh, did the messages say what it's about," JC asked.
"I am very sorry sir, but I do not know. Perhaps if you will please come with me, you can use the telephone in our office to call this Senor Timberlake."
"Yes," JC said, hurriedly standing up. "Yes, thank you."
"Right this way," the young woman said.
JC signaled to the waiter that he'd be right back, and then he followed the young woman across the street and into the American Express office.
"Do you need the telephone number, sir," the young woman said, pointing to a pile of telephone message slips on her desk.
"No," JC answered. "I know the number."
"Very well then," the young woman said, pointing now to a small conference room. "You may use the telephone in there to make your call."
"Thank you," JC said.
The conference room contained a rectangular glass table surrounded by four high- backed wooden chairs. The telephone sat in the middle of the table next to a small pad of paper, a coffee cup, and three pencils. JC grabbed the phone and quickly punched Justin's telephone number.
"Fuck," JC said, listening to the phone ring at the other end for the sixth time, and then hearing someone finally pick up.
"This better be good," Justin shouted into the phone.
"Justin!" JC shouted back. "It's Jayce."
"Jayce," Justin muttered, yawning. "It's four in the fucking morning, man."
"What?" JC said.
"Never mind," Justin said. "Um, so wassup?"
"Justin!" JC shouted, panic choking his voice. "You left me a hundred fucking messages to call you. Is Lance okay? He's not dead, is he?"
"No, no ... " Justin said, suddenly realizing how freaked out JC sounded. "It ain't bad news, Jayce. Lance is cool. Better than cool, in fact."
JC pulled a chair away from the table and sat down in it. He felt like he was about to throw up.
"Justin, just giving me the fucking news. Okay?"
"Chill out man," Justin snapped, not bothering to hide his irritation. "Like I just told you, it ain't bad news, Jayce, it's fucking good news."
JC leaned forward and rested his head on the table. The glass was cold and it felt good on his forehead. The back of JC's t-shirt was soaked through with sweat, and it was clinging uncomfortably to his skin. Holding the receiver against his ear with his shoulder, JC struggled out of his coat and let it drop to the floor.
"So what's the news, Justin? Just tell me."
"I guess you didn't hear then," Justin said, unable to resist drawing it out a little longer, even though he knew this was killing JC, and he was sure to shout at him again.
"For fucking sake, Justin," JC shouted into the phone. "If you don't fucking give me the news in like two fucking seconds, I am going to so fucking kill you."
"Okay, okay," Justin said, laughing. "So, get this -- a certain Mr. Joshua Scott Chasez got himself nominated for a fucking Academy Award --how about that?"
"No way," JC said, pounding his forehead lightly on the table.
"Yeah, way," Justin said. "And that ain't all, because our little guy Lance got his bad self nominated too, for best fucking actor."
JC stood up, and knocked over his chair.
"He what?"
"Jayce, you are such a dork," Justin said, laughing again.
"Wow. I mean, that's great. Lance must be really happy."
"Hey...you got nominated too, you know," Justin said, scolding him. "Be happy for your damn self."
JC was silent for a moment, trying to imagine how Lance had reacted to the news.
"I hope he wins," JC finally said.
"Yeah, well he said the same thing about you."
JC sat down again, and nearly fell on the floor, catching himself at the last minute and dropping the phone.
"You talked to him?" JC said.
"Yeah," Justin said, trying decide how much to say, and not wanting to say too much. "He called me a couple times, mostly wondering where in the hell you went. I told him I didn't know, which is the truth."
"Yeah, it is," JC said.
"Which reminds me," Justin said. "Where in the hell are you?"
JC ignored the question and said nothing.
"Well, anyway, where ever the hell you are, you to got to get your scrawny white ass back here, like right away, because the Academy Awards show is in four days."
JC remained silent even though his mouth fell open as if he was about to speak.
"Jayce," Justin said, his voice rising. "Did someone fucking steal your brain, man? I said, you got to get back hear so you can sing your damn song. Hello!"
JC said nothing again, thinking, I'm not ready.
"Jayce -- you still there?"
"Yeah," JC said, leaning forward and resting his head on the table again. "Um, so ... is he okay?"
"You mean Lance?"
"Yeah, Lance."
Justin paused for several seconds, and then said: "I think he's okay. He ...uh, he misses you, and ... uh, I think he's worried, you know?"
"Is that what he said?"
"Well, he calls like every week, you know, asking if I heard from you yet."
Justin listened for some sort of response, but all he could hear was JC's ragged breathing on the other end of the line.
"And, uh, he's ... he's back home too."
JC quickly sat up, banging his left shoulder against the back of the chair because he'd been sitting at an angle.
"Ouch!" JC said, almost dropping the phone again. "You mean ... in the house, the one in San Diego?"
"That'd be the one," Justin said.
"When did he get back?"
"Like two months ago, I think," Justin said, unsure now whether telling JC about Lance had been the right thing to do. "Umm... he's been there awhile."
"Oh, man," JC sighed, gripping the edge of the table and watching his knuckles go white from the pressure of holding on.
"And... uh, Jayce," Justin continued. "He's ...uh, he's waiting for you, he's like waiting for you to come home."
To Justin, the silence that invaded the line seemed to signal that telling JC about Lance had been the wrong thing to do. He'd planned on saying nothing, except about the Academy Awards, but then he couldn't help himself. He'd thought JC should know, and that he'd want to know, but now he wasn't sure.
"Jayce, are you okay?" he finally said.
"No," JC said flatly, and then said nothing more.
"So... uh, anyway," Justin said, forcing himself to go on. "Are you coming back -- for the Academy Awards at least."
JC let go of the table and wiped the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "I really don't know," JC said. "I mean, I'm not even sure it's possible to make it in time. I'm a long way from L.A. right now."
"Yeah, but..."
JC cut Justin off.
"Look, Justin. I can't make any promises right now, at least not one that I think I can keep. I want to, but I can't. So, I just don't know, I'll...I'll think about it, I'll really think about, and I'll ... I don't know, I'll just think about it. Okay?"
"Okay," Justin said, his voice full of sadness. "If that's the best you can do."
"It is," JC said.
"So, Jayce -- what should I tell your manager? He's been calling too, wanting to know whether you'll be there, you know, to sing."
JC felt overwhelmed. It had been weeks since he'd made any decision more difficult than what to buy for dinner, even though he almost always bought the same thing. His life was calm and uncomplicated now, free of drama, and free of surprise.
"Justin ...I need you to understand something, and don't be pissed. Okay? I need you to understand that I think I like it here, and I'm not sure that I want to leave. Okay? And, well...it's just hard for me to think about going back, right now, because it, you know, it really does seem like ... I don't know. Does that make sense?"
"No," Justin said matter-of-factly. "It doesn't make any sense."
"Anyway," JC continued. "I just want you to know that I really am going to think about this, and try to do what's right. But I want you to promise me something too."
"What?"
"I want you to promise to sing the song if I don't show up. You can tell them I'll try to be there, but if I don't show, I want you to sing it. Someone has to sing it, and if it's not me, I want it to be you."
"No way," Justin said. "There's now fucking way... It's your song, Jayce, not mine, so there's just no way."
"Justin -- listen to me," JC said. "If you don't promise me this, then I'm not coming back, because ... I'm not coming back just because I have to, okay?"
"Yeah, okay," Justin said, stunned by the sheer ferocity of JC's reply.
"So -- you promise?"
"Yeah, I promise."
"Good," JC said, exhaling loudly.
"So, I guess I'll see you if I see you," Justin said, his eyes full of tears.
"Yeah," JC said.
"I love you Jayce," Justin said.
"I love you too, Just," JC said. "And thanks."
JC hung up the phone and exited the conference room. He was heading for the front door when the young woman who had retrieved him from the cafe across the street stopped JC and handed him a small bundle of envelopes and telephone message slips.
"Do not forget these, Senor Chasez," she said, speaking softly, almost as if she was sharing a secret. "I am also hoping that everything is all right."
JC took the bundle from the young woman and noticed that her hands were trembling. His hands were trembling too.
"Thank you," he said, handing her a ten-Euro bill as a tip.
Seeing the money, the young woman shook her head and blushed. "No, please, Se?or Chasez. Thank you, but I really cannot accept."
"Oh, I'm sorry," JC said, quickly slipping the money back into his pocket. "I just wanted to say thank you for being so helpful."
"It is not necessary, Se?or Chasez," the young woman said, smiling. "My job is to help. You are very welcome."
"Then let me buy you a glass of sherry," JC asked, still feeling bad that he had embarrassed her by trying to give her money. "Or maybe a coffee or something, you know, at the cafe across the street."
"That would be very nice," she said, pleased at the invitation. "I am nearly completed with my job here, so I can meet you in twenty minutes, if that is all right."
"Sure," JC said, shrugging. "I'll see you then."
JC left the American Express office and walked back across the street to where he'd been sitting before. He felt dizzy, and slightly disoriented from everything that had just happened. Sitting down at his table, JC decided to not think about any of it for the time being. Just have another sherry, he thought.
When the waiter approached, JC ordered the sherry and calamares fritos, a plate of fried calamari. He then settled back into his chair and untied the string that secured the bundle of letter and message slips he'd just received. All the messages were from Justin; he really had called every day for the last two week. There were just four envelopes, and JC hesitated before looking at them. This can wait, he thought, but then he was unable to resist, and he started to flip through them, looking at the return address on each one. J. Timberlake, J. Timberlake, J. Timberlake, James L. Bass.
JC's faced flushed hot and red, like he'd bitten into something extremely hot.
"Are you all right sir," the waiter asked as he walked towards his table carrying a glass of sherry on a small black tray. "You do not look well."
"Uhh," JC stammered, unable to speak at first. "I...uh, I need to go. I'm sorry, but, um, how much do I owe you?"
The waiter quickly calculated the bill and handed it to JC, who then immediately paid it, adding a generous tip. JC grabbed a leather satchel from under the table and shoved his book and the four letters inside it. He then turned to the waiter and said: "I was supposed to meet someone here, a young woman. Could you please give her my apologies, and tell her that there was an emergency, and that I had to go?"
"Of course, sir," the waiter said, already beginning to clear the table.
JC burst into his apartment after having run up all three flights of stairs. He was panting and out of breath. JC sat on the floor and pulled off his boots without bothering to unlace them first. The sun was low in the winter sky, and the cathedral was casting a shadow over his apartment, making it seem much darker than would be expected for this time of day; it was almost as if night had arrived early.
JC dumped the contents of his satchel on the floor in front of him. Colored pencils and pens and crayons scattered noisily across the stone floor, bouncing and ricocheting in all directions. His book had landed on top of the four letters, and JC impatiently kicked it across the room where it hit the wall with a dull thud. Picking up all four letters, JC quickly sorted through them again and found the one from Lance.
JC couldn't decide whether to open the envelope and read the letter. Holding it, he already knew the letter was a second chance; he knew it without even reading it, without even knowing the words it contained. JC also knew that, if he opened the letter, he was going back, and this too he knew without needing to read it. It was the fact of the letter that mattered, not what it said, the fact that Lance had sent it, and that Lance was at home waiting for some kind of reply, and waiting for him to come home.
When he woke up, JC was still in his clothes, and still clutching the letter, which remained unread. His room was filling with sunlight, and he watched for a moment as the shadows started to recede, pulling back across the floor like pools of ink draining into the floor boards. Slowly standing up and stretching, JC rubbed his eyes and then yawned. Despite the early morning sun, it looked to JC like it might rain, and that he might need his heavy coat today.
JC walked to the window and leaned against its stone frame. As he'd done every morning since he'd first arrived, JC waited for Isabella to appear, waited for her to again traverse the Pla de la Seu, just like she always did, and then disappear around the corner of the Casa de l'Ardiaca, the Archdeacon's house, on her way to somewhere, or perhaps to someone.
On this particular morning though, on this morning on the seventh of March, JC waited for a long time, watching for Isabella, but never seeing her appear. He knew there was no use in going to class now, because it would be over by the time he could get there.
"Where are you, Isabella," JC said, stepping away from the window, and standing in the middle of the room, tears in his eyes, and unsure of what to do next.
JC imagined someone waiting for Isabella, waiting for her somewhere not too far away, perhaps in a small cafe, perhaps having ordered two cups of coffee, as was always his habit when he waited for her there, and perhaps while he waited, waited with all the patience of a saint, the coffee slowly grew cold, as cold as a corpse, because Isabella did not appear, and he was left waiting, all alone.